


insomnia

by unityManipulator



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Sort of? - Freeform, and by "i" i mean taako did, and by "lost" i mean that sazed was Bad™, i hate him and want him to choke on a pop can tab, i just woke up and published this the next day, i won't lie i wrote this at 2 a.m., it's past sazed/taako, sazed is a garbageboy stinkman and deserves to die, so it wasn't really a loss if you think about it, this is literally just taako getting sad and existential about what he lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unityManipulator/pseuds/unityManipulator
Summary: He feels empty, he concludes, a crippling emptiness that passes past anything an elf should be able to feel and proceeds straight into existential emptiness, and he finds that he can’t even bring himself to care about the new cosmic level of voidy-ness he’s in.It’s easy for his thoughts to wander, in this state.or: taako gets existential at midnight, and misses some things that heprobablydefinitely shouldn't.





	insomnia

The miniature grandfather clock chimes a twelve-note song, cutting through the silence of the room. It’s too dark to see anything, even with darkvision, and the silence is choking and oppressive once the clock falls silent again. The bed is still and silent like the rest of the room, a massive four-poster taking up the corner farthest from the door, the curtains drawn and the blankets a tangled heap. Within that cocoon, the closest he can get to shelter from the world, lies Taako.

He should be meditating, he knows that, even as the gentle tones of the clock mark another quarter hour, fifteen minutes past the last time it rang, and he can’t remember whether that ring had been the half-hour tone or the quarter-hour or even the full hour. He’s lying on his side, his hands uselessly across the mattress in front of him, and sometimes he brings them up to run through his hair, letting strands fall from the auburn bob and onto the pillowcase. 

He hasn’t been _crying_ , of course not, because he hasn’t cried since he was twelve years old and his tears hadn’t done anything to fix the world so he’d made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t cry again. It’s just a coincidence that his eyes are red and his cheeks wet and if he licks his lips they taste of salt and they’re chapped (they’ve _split_ , he thinks, he’s never had a split lip in his life yet he definitely tastes a coppery tang when he snakes his tongue back into his mouth and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s been forgetting to hydrate or ignoring his near-obsessive routine of fantasy chapstick or some other reason, but he feels his gut twist at the thought).

Despite his tears, he’s not sobbing or even breathing heavily. It’s more like the tears are just… existing, in a state that’s not quantifiably real or connected to himself. The tears are there but he’s not 100% sure that _he’s_ here, and no amount of playing with his hair or biting his lip or digging his fingernails into his palms can help. He feels empty, he concludes, a crippling emptiness that passes past anything an elf should be able to feel and proceeds straight into existential emptiness, and he finds that he can’t even bring himself to care about the new cosmic level of voidy-ness he’s in.

It’s easy for his thoughts to wander, in this state.

 

He can’t help it, really. It starts slow, the phantom brush of lips against his neck, and he makes a half-hearted attempt to shift away even though he knows it won’t help. They persist, peppering kisses and gentle licks in a pattern Taako not only remembers, but knows intimately. They follow freckles he used to have, he knows that, pausing on his shoulder (three in a close line, so close that the kisses are less separate entities and more the smooth dragging of lips an inch, back to front), tracing down his arm (he’d traced his fingers down that same pattern for weeks, gentle zigzags and right angles, wondering where things had gone wrong), a swipe of tongue across his forearm (the scar from a hot pan, Taako remembers, and every time he thinks of that moment the ache in his chest deepens) before settling a final kiss in his palm, and Taako can’t help the way his fingers curl in, a last subconscious (unwanted, he reminds himself) attempt to hold onto something he’s been years without.

“Taako,” he hears, and he can never tell whether he’s hallucinating or making it up in his mind but he _knows_ that voice, how could he not? 

The first sob of the night wracks his body as he tries desperately to hold it in, to be quiet, to silence himself so that even the ghost of Sazed won’t hear.

 

He can’t help it, and he hates himself for it. If he could get rid of the insomnia, the restless nights where he’s wracked by a nightmarish combination of damning Sazed and missing him, he’d do it in a second. Every breath rekindles the ache in his chest and the tightness in his stomach, and he squeezes his eyes shut even as more tears spill down his face.

It felt so _natural_ with Sazed, the way his blue eyes would shift ever-so-slightly as he’d look into Taako’s. His hand, calloused from the travel and rough on Taako’s hip as the two of them fell into sleep, intertwined in the caravan’s mediocre bed, his breath warm on Taako’s shoulder. With the moments like that, it was easy to forget Sazed’s criticisms. (“Constructive criticism,” Sazed would brush them off as, “I want this show to be the best it can be, don’t you, Taako?” and Taako would agree and swallow harshly, reminding himself that this was his vision, and _Sizzle it up!_ was going to be incredible, he just needed to work harder, add more flair and drama, it was a constantly-improving work in progress and all he needed to do was reach just a little bit farther.) 

It was easy to forget the nights where Sazed would pinch a glass or two of the wine they kept for cooking (and special occasions, but Taako couldn’t remember which _occasions_ they celebrated to save his life) and let his voice get louder and louder, booming through the caravan, and Taako knew after the first night it happened that there was no point in asking his boyfriend (Partner? Roommate?) to try to keep it down. He’d push down the moments when Sazed would stalk around the caravan, when he’d once hit it so hard one of the boards had come loose, when he’d gone to ask an innocent question and Sazed had turned so sharply and nearly _roared _at him that he’d quickly shied away and gone to bed for an early night.__

__(Sazed would always crawl into bed and apologize, rubbing small circles across Taako’s hipbone as he’d murmured assurances that it wouldn’t happen again, that it had just been a rough day, that he was _“trying his best”_ and _“working on his temper, honest,”_ and Taako would take a shaky breath and whisper “I forgive you” before Sazed would bring his mouth to Taako’s neck, a kiss that was little more than a suggestion.)_ _

__(Taako would go along with it, he always did, because it was easier to forgive Sazed than let that anger fester. He’d turn over, let Sazed kiss him, and when things progressed further his eyes would turn to a glassy, faraway stare as he vacantly watched his own hand move. If Sazed noticed, he either didn’t care or preferred this empty gesture. Taako could never decide what was a worse outcome.)_ _

__

__The sleepless nights started after Glamour Springs, and they’d never truly ended._ _


End file.
